Smoke
by LCsquee
Summary: He snorted. Yeah, he was trying, he groused, fumbling with another patch, crumpled and pitiful-looking from the depths of his trouser pocket. He was trying, but he always ended up spitting the foul-tasting gum into the wastebasket and stripping off his patches before lunch. One-shot, possible two-shot. LestradexSherlock
1. Chapter 1: Smoke

Title: Smoke

Series: Sherlock (BBC)

Disclaimer: I do not own the series nor the characters.

Genres: humor, romance, slight angst

Warnings: light malexmale, swearing

Pairings: Lestrade x Sherlock

Story Word Count: 1630

Quitting sucked. Period. Lestrade had shoved the sticks of gum into his mouth and stuck the patches on his arm every morning for the past few weeks. He really tried, he reasoned to himself as he leaned against the cold brick wall, alone in the morning fog outside the day's murder site. He really wanted to quit. Except, he didn't- it was complicated. Sure, he wanted to keep his wife from using his 'habit' as another excuse to stray, so he wanted the ends that would come from the means of quitting—but he didn't want to stop the actual smoking. Smoking was something that was _his_, something he did to prepare for the day and then unwind from it. He kept his internal clock by it- a smoke before work, two at lunch, one on the way home, one or two after dinner. It was a comfort. He'd been smoking since he was a stringy teenager, all delighted delinquent excitement as he huddled among other pock-marked boys behind the school to share a smuggled cigarette. He'd been smoking the moment he met his wife, barely an adult and stupid. Hell, she could have warned him that she'd take off for another guy twenty years down the road because of it.

He was putting up the effort to quit now, though, so it didn't do to get all worked up about the past. He snorted. Yeah, he was trying, he groused, fumbling with another patch, crumpled and pitiful-looking from the depths of his trouser pocket. He was trying, but he always ended up spitting the foul-tasting gum into the wastebasket and stripping off his patches before lunch. He freed the sticker from its wrapping, simultaneously attempting to roll up his coat sleeve and unpeel it from the backing paper. A cool, damp breeze blew in the alley, snatching the flimsy patch from his fingers. He cursed, fumbled, cursed again when it landed in a puddle of what appeared to be piss. His lips pressed together in a quivering line, staring down at the forlorn-looking patch absorbing the contents of the puddle. He clenched a fist, released it. Shoved a hand into his coat pocket, coming back with only a silver lighter. No patches left, no gum. He searched his back pocket, his wallet coming back in his shaking hand. He shoved both articles into his coat pocket. Right.

Lestrade stepped away from the alley with a furious movement. Fuck this, he thought, just _fuck it_. He was going to go to the nearest shop and buy himself a smoke; it's not like anyone would ever know and he damn well needed one. He crossed the wet pavement, half-jogging down the sidewalk past little old ladies with their outdated shopping bags and spotted youths leering at everything with equal parts angst and disdain. Stumbling over the threshold of the first shop advertising tobacco he came across, he made a beeline for the small display of cigarette packs. He grabbed the one, red and white and somehow horridly beautiful, and made his way up to the checkout. The tired-looking woman behind the till rang him up without attempting to make any small talk. He was handing over his payment when the woman let out a startled cry followed by a frantic, "No! Ohhhh no, no, no!" She hurried out from behind the counter and bustled past him, ignoring the money still held out in Lestrade's hand as she barked, "No, no! No you don't, young man!"

Lestrade slapped his money down in agitation on the counter, not wanted to have to arrest a shop-lifter or whatever other nonsense was getting the woman's panties in a knot. He turned to offer an obligatory hand, being an officer of the law and all that bullshit, only to freeze in surprise. The small woman was batting her hands at a very familiar figure, grabbing two packs of cigarettes out of long-fingered hands and pushing the tall, black-coated figure bodily away from the tobacco display. "No, you're not allowed to buy tobacco from here! Purchase something else or leave!"

Sherlock scowled down at the woman, opening his mouth to undoubtedly deduce her into a state of tears. Lestrade, however, called out quickly, "Ah, Sherlock! You were going to get me a pack of smokes, how nice. I've got some already, though." He held up the pack, waving them gleefully at the clearly incensed consulting detective. "Come on, I'll pay for these and then we can go for a walk; I'll tell you about this morning's murder case, how's that sound?" Sherlock grumbled under his breath about idiots, but came to stand by Lestrade. He eyed the new package of cigarette on the counter like a hawk, his expression decidedly envious. The woman looked suspiciously between them, casting glares at Sherlock as she finished ringing up Lestrade's purchase. He shoved them into his coat pocket, oddly pleased with Sherlock's agitation.

The two men exited the shop, walking back the way Lestrade had come in silence. As they passed more old ladies and spotty youths, Lestrade was surprised that Sherlock wasn't running his usual deduction-commentary on the pedestrians. He was conflicted, unsure whether to be proud that the sociopath wasn't belittling the 'common people,' or concerned that he was so silent. The detective-inspector turned his head slightly to look at Sherlock as they came to a crosswalk, sputtering when he found Sherlock with his newly purchased pack of cigarettes ripped open in one hand, a cigarette clamped in his mouth, the other hand trying to work the silver lighter. Lestrade roughly reclaimed the pack and lighter, nicking the cigarette from the now frowning mouth, "You-you _pick-pocketed_ me!"

Sherlock's face twisted into a frantic sort of rage, audibly grinding his teeth together as he growled, "I need nicotine! John and Ms. Hudson got every bloody shopkeeper to put a ban on my purchase of tobacco _and_ hid all my patches and smoking things! " He ran his pale hands over his face, looking half dangerous and half amusing to Lestrade. Huffing, he pocketed his pack once more, transferring the stolen cigarette to his own mouth, smiling around it when Sherlock let out a half-strangled sound of protest. He walked a few paces away before Sherlock caught back up with him.

"You're supposed to be quitting!" Sherlock snarled as he stepped back in line beside him, to which Lestrade shrugged noncommittally. Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock spat in a fast voice, his pitch rising, "Ring around eyes, haven't been sleeping more than a few hours at night for at least four days- muscles tense in right shoulder and knee, spent the night on the couch undoubtedly due to disagreement with wife over smoking habit—small red specks on side of right hand, had jelly doughnut for breakfast but hands shaking from nicotine withdrawal made you drop it on the floor, corresponding red jelly specks on the tip of right shoe—breath artificial mint, haven't had a smoke yet today , tried to chew nicotine gum but spat it out after only seven minutes—small adhesive marks on fingertips, wrestling with patches in vain attempt to curb craving—all pockets in trousers and coat crumpled, forgot to bring more patches and gum, found only a lighter with sentimental value, as denoted by your initials engraved on the side, and wallet, decided to give in and buy a pack, who'd notice—"

"Shut UP, Sherlock!" Lestrade interrupted him, grabbing the hand that had been surreptitiously edging its way back into his pocket and pushing it away.

Their rising agitation had increased their pace, and they now stood at the entrance to the alley, empty save for the patch still soaking in the puddle by their feet. Sherlock breathed heavily through his nose, his eyes bright. He had clearly taken the withdrawal badly, possibly worse than Lestrade, and they were both liable to become enraged at the drop of a hat. Lestrade tensed, cigarette held firmly and unlit in his mouth. They were silent and still for a moment, then Sherlock was shoving a hand carelessly into Lestrade's coat pocket, grasping desperately for the dented package as the other pale hand battled with Lestrade's own disapproving hands. Lestrade was not amused anymore; he was _pissed._ He shoved Sherlock away hard, the gangly man catching himself on the alley wall, and tore the pack out of his pocket. Sherlock stilled, eyes fixed on the pack held in the air. Lestrade opened the box. Sherlock looked hopeful. Lestrade up-ended the package, the cigarettes falling into the puddle that might be piss even as Sherlock dove towards them. He didn't catch a single one.

The consulting detective kneeled there, frozen in front of the dirty puddle, the cigarettes swelling slightly as they turned a yellow-brown color. His face was pale, his mouth open in what could be shock or horror, perhaps both. Lestrade feared for a moment that the other might take the pissy smokes out of the puddle home with him, dry them out, and try to smoke them. He had seen the other man do crazier things. But the consulting detective abandoned the puddle, falling back to sit against the alley wall. He looked tired and defeated. Lestrade slid down next to him. They breathed next to each other for a moment, leaning against the rough brick wall. He didn't feel remotely angry anymore, just empty and craving the cigarette hanging from his mouth more than ever.

"I won't steal your cigarette," Sherlock spoke up, quietly, "You can go ahead and smoke." Lestrade believed him. And God, did he need a smoke after that.

He steadied the slightly bent cigarette in his mouth, reached for his lighter, found his hand empty. Sherlock wordlessly held up the flaming lighter. Of course. Lestrade angled his face closer, lighting up. He leaned back, his head resting against the cool brick, and heard the lighter click shut, felt the weight of it drop back into his pocket. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, feeling the smoke travel down his throat and to his lungs, rich and nicotine-laden, before circling the secondhand back up and into his mouth. He parted his lips to blow out the white smoke, but felt a warm mouth close on his own to form a seal. He opened his eyes, somehow not surprised or even very disturbed to see Sherlock locking lips with him for the sake of the secondhand smoke. He could just breathe the smoke out through his nose and into the brat's eyes. He could, he mused, looking at the eyes looking up at him inches away, eyes that held the same deep, unsettling craving that he knew his own did. It'd sever the brat right for all the trouble he gave him; not just this morning, but every damn day. He could, but he wrapped a hand around Sherlock's neck, drawing him to sit comfortably between his knees. Thin, pale hands rested on his legs. He exhaled the smoke into the other's mouth, bodies pressed comfortably against the damp chill of the alley. Mouths moved slightly against each other, one exhaling with lips expanding slightly, the other inhaling with a repetitive light sucking motion. They broke apart, Sherlock blowing out his third-hand smoke as Lestrade took another long drag on the cigarette. Eyes met in mutual amusement and some other emotion as lips found each other again.

They took their time with their cigarette. God knows they needed it.

_Author's notes:_ Heeeeeey. I have a second part in mind for this, getting more, _ahem, _involved in the after-math of their cigarette (read: sexy times of some sort). Would anyone be interested in that, like a second chapter, or should I leave this as an oneshot? Anyways, I enjoyed writing this and hope you liked it! Let me know via comment if you'd like a second chapter to this(the rating would go up to M).


	2. Chapter 2: Ashes

Title: Smoke

Series: Sherlock (BBC)

Disclaimer: I do not own the series nor the characters.

Genres: humor, romance, slight angst

Warnings: malexmale, swearing

Pairings: Lestrade x Sherlock

Chapter Word Count: 860

CH. 2

The cigarette decreased in size far too rapidly, though they tried to make it last. Though their source of precious nicotine grew smaller, something else was developing in the air between the moving seal of their mouths. Lips shifted more urgently against each other, tendrils of smoke escaping with small gasps of air.

The two men moved apart once more. Chests rising and falling far too quickly for smokers simply sharing a cigarette. Sherlock blew out his smoke almost impatiently. Both turned their gazes to look at the dwindling cigarette held loosely in Lestrade's hand. A small fraction of white paper was left visible now, the filter far longer than the remainder of the tobacco.

Lestrade gave a sigh of defeat, knowing their little smoking session couldn't last forever. He took his last drag, flicked the filter off into the shadows of the alley. Soft lips mouthed at the corner of his jaw, demanding. Lestrade turned into the kiss without complaint, giving the other the relief he so craved.

Smoke lined their mouths, rich and warm and _so good._ This was the moment, when they were supposed to move apart. It was a boundary line, this moment, where they could tip either way; the time when they were supposed to move to one side politely, pull away and move on, forgetting about their shared smoking cession, or throw themselves to the other side into something more intimate. It was a thin line. Legs shifted, heat low in their bodies and high in their cheeks. One of them rocked slightly, perhaps on accident. Little moans scattered and bounced around the echoing alley. Lestrade gripped the curve of Sherlock's waist hard enough to bruise. A leg wound seemingly of it's own accord around his hip, bringing the heat in their pants impossibly close together. The little puff of smoke that remained between their seal leaked from the corners of their mouths, creeping up their faces as they made sounds that were unintelligible but mutually understood—_good, more, harder, right there, yes_. Friction built little bubbling gasps as their crotches ground frantically.

Lestrade knew there was no smoke left to share now, no reason to press their swollen lips together, saliva glistening in the slow build of the grey morning light. The transition from smoking to desire was too smooth; he couldn't have brought himself to stop the press of their bodies if he wanted to. He was rutting wildly against his equally needy consulting detective, uncaring of the handful of nicotine-laden cigarettes still dissolving in the puddle just feet away.

Sherlock sucked at his throat, leg muscles twitching slightly as he rolled is hips tortuously against the detective-inspector. Shameless noises escaped him when Lestrade gripped his ass underneath his thick coat. Limbs were in tangles, coats somehow unbuttoned in the fuzzy state of lust. Somewhere between the zip of trousers and the almost-yell that one or both of them made at the cool air against bare erection, they had found their way to the ground. The dirty, cold concrete was cushioned by Sherlock's coat, too impatient to take his arms out of the sleeves—but it didn't matter, because his legs were pushed back and wound around Lestrade's torso and then—"F-fucking hell!" Burning hot, hard, slick flesh met and ground downward, rendering the consulting detective only capable of explicatives and high moans.

The pace was rough and fast, their pants barely open enough to push their erections out of boxers, but it felt too damn good to stop. They slid across the ground a little from time to time, grunts and high noises encouraging the dull thump of hip bones meeting. Lestrade wished he could slow down and enjoy this, maybe shove himself deep into the flushing body beneath him—hell, maybe even impale himself on the other's dick—but he was too far along to change pace now. He was getting close to losing it, and if Sherlock's ragged breathing was anything to go by, he was too. He ground the pale genius into the ground, kisses breathless and more moan than contact. He jerked abruptly, cumming hard onto the body below him. Sherlock followed as if on cue. Their movements slowed as they rode out their orgasms, finally easing into a gentle rocking that moved over-heated and sensitive flesh in little swings of hips. Lestrade had the tiny bit of strength and decency left to roll in his fall, landing next to Sherlock instead of crushing him.

They lay, panting indecently and exposing themselves even more obscenely to anyone who could be so unfortunate as to walk by the alley. But it was still early in the morning, in a dingy alley outside a murder site. Yard members would be arriving in half an hour, maybe more. Plenty of time to lie there and enjoy the afterglow for a few minutes before beating a hasty retreat to- his house, Sherlock's flat? Somewhere they could wash the smell of sex from their skin and exchange their white-splattered clothes for fresh. Then they could return, cravings sated for the time being, to the murder site for deductions and shared, sly smiles.

End.

Author's Notes: And there you have it, the sexy times~. Kind of short, but ah well.


End file.
